I reluctantly took this photo from a textbook, not one of my many Phyllis Webb books (see below). Unfortunately, the disorder of my life is clearly reflected in the disorder of my home, and I cannot access her books at the moment. "Rilke" by Phyllis Webb in 15 Canadian Poets x3, ed. Gary Geddes. Toronto: Oxford. 2001. 144.

In university, where Doug Beardsley introduced me to Webb's work, I was immediately taken by her sensuous voice, played through a cassette tape player. It's been tough to track down more recordings of her voice; if I ever win the lottery, I will compile, master, and publish a selection of her recitations for people to download. Then others can enjoy the sultry huskiness of Webb's expressive voice.

Beardsley questioned whether Webb's poetry fits under the "modern" or "postmodern" banner/genre/category. I think her written voice is unique enough to defy most attempts at genre definition. She is a tone boss whose lexical strokes smack of self-actualization.

My last entry, titled "Needs," highlighted my continuing efforts to identify my own needs after years of self-denial in the name of religion. I've been slowly working my way through this workshop about Marshall Rosenberg's NonViolent Communication method. This morning, when I started the video while doing the laundry, he talked a little about needs, and I listened.

Starting at 1:41:50:

The crazy thing is, however, that it still makes very little sense to me. I feel like I've been psychologically gypped (slurbedamned) out of an essential life skill. I am annoyed.